While love insults,* disguised in the cloud,
And welcome force, of that unruly crowd.
So the amorous tree, while yet the air is calm,
Just distance keeps from his desired palm;+
But when the wind her ravished branches throws
Into his arms, and mingles all their boughs,
Though loath he seems her tender leaves to press,
More loath he is that friendly storm should cease,
From whose rude bounty he the double use
At once receives, of pleasure and excuse.
THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE, ‡
THYRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Saccharissa loved, but loved in vain;
Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy!
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues,
With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use !
Such is the chaes when Love and Fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and through flowery meads;
Invoked to testify the lover's care,
Or form some image of his cruel fair.
Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer,
O'er these he fled; and now approaching near,
Had reached the nymph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain;
+ Ovalle informs us that the palm-trees in Chili have this wonderful property, that they never will bear any fruit but when they are planted near each other; and when they find one standing barren by itself, if they plant another, be it never so small, (which they call the female,) it will become prolific.-FENTON.
Ovid's Metamorphoses, b. i.
All, but the nymph that should redress his wrong, Attend his passion, and approve his song.
Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
He catched at love, and filled his arms with bays.*
FABULA PHOEBI ET DAPHNES.
RCADIA juvenis Thyrsis, Phœbique sacerdos, Ingenti frustra Saccharissæ ardebat amore. Haud Deus ipse olim Daphni majora canebat; Nec suit asperior Daphne, nec pulchrior illâ: Carminibus Phoebo dignis premit ille fugacem Per rupes, per saxa, volans per florida vates Pascua formosam nunc his componere nympham, Nunc illis crudelem insanâ mente solebat. Audiit illa procul miserum, cytharamque sonantem ; Audiit, at nullis respexit mota querelis! Ne tamen omnino caneret desertus, ad alta Sidera perculsi referunt nova carmina montes. Sic, non quæsitis cumulatus laudibus, olim Elapsâ reperit Daphne sua laurea Phoebus.
* The transformation of the nymph into the laurel is thus rendered
Forthwith a numbness all her limbs possessed,
And slender films her softer sides invest;
Hair into leaves, her arms to branches grow,
And late swift feet, now roots, are less than slow.
Her graceful head a heavy top sustains;
One beauty throughout all her form remains.
Still Phoebus loves. He handles the new plant,
And feels her heart within the bark to pant.
Embraced the bole, as he would her have done;
And kissed the boughs; the boughs his kisses shun.
To whom the god: Although thou canst not be
The wife I wished, yet shalt thou be my Tree;
Our quiver, harp, our tresses never shorn,
My Laurel, thou shalt ever more adorn.''
SAY, lovely dream! where couldst thou find
Shades to counterfeit that face?
Colours of this glorious kind
Come not from any mortal place.
In heaven itself thou sure wert dressed
With that angel-like disguise:
Thus deluded am I blessed,
And see my joy with closed eyes.
But ah! this image is too kind
To be other than a dream;
Cruel Saccharissa's mind
Never put on that sweet extreme!
Fair dream! if thou intend'st me grace,
Change that heavenly face of thine;
Paint despised love in thy face,
And make it to appear like mine.
Pale, wan, and meagre let it look,
With a pity-moving shape,
Such as wander by the brook
Of Lethe, or from graves escape.
Then to that matchless nymph appear,
In whose shape thou shinest so;
Softly in her sleeping ear,
With humble words, express my woe.
Perhaps from greatness, state, and pride,
Thus surprised she may fall;
Sleep does disproportion hide,
And, death resembling, equals all.
TO MRS. BRAUGHT ON,
SERVANT TO SACCHARISSA.
AIR fellow-servant! may your gentle ear Prove more propitious to my slighted care Than the bright dame's we serve: for her relief (Vexed with the long expressions of my grief) Receive these plaints; nor will her high disdain Forbid my humble muse to court her train.
So, in those nations which the sun adore,
Some modest Persian, or some weak-eyed Moor,
No higher dares advance his dazzled sight,
Than to some gilded cloud, which near the light
Of their ascending god adorns the east,
And, graced with his beams, outshines the rest.
Thy skilful hand contributes to our woe,
And whets those arrows which confound us so.
A thousand Cupids in those curls do sit
(Those curious nets!) thy slender fingers knit.
The Graces put not more exactly on
The attire of Venus, when the ball she won,
Than Saccharissa by thy care is dressed,
When all our youth prefers her to the rest.
You the soft season know when best her mind
May be to pity, or to love, inclined:
In some well-chosen hour supply his fear,
Whose hopeless love durst never tempt the ear
Of that stern goddess. You, her priest, declare
What offerings may propitiate the fair;
Rich orient pearl, bright stones that ne'er decay,
Or polished lines, which longer last than they;
For if I thought she took delight in those,
To where the cheerful morn does first disclose,
(The shady night removing with her beams)
Winged with bold love, I'd fly to fetch such gems.
But since her eyes, her teeth, her lip excels
All that is found in mines or fishes' shells,
Her nobler part as far exceeding these,
None but immortal gifts her mind should please.
The shining jewels Greece and Troy bestowed
On Sparta's queen,* her lovely neck did load,
And snowy wrists; but when the town was burned,
Those fading glories were to ashes turned;
Her beauty, too, had perished, and her fame,
Had not the muse redeemed them from the flame.
TO MY YOUNG LADY LUCY SIDNEY.+
HY came I so untimely forth
Into a world which, wanting thee,
Could entertain us with no worth
Or shadow of felicity?
That time should me so far remove
From that which I was born to love!
Yet, fairest blossom! do not slight
That age which you may know so soon;
The rosy morn resigns her light,
And milder glory, to the noon;
And then what wonders shall you do,
Whose dawning beauty warms us so?
Hope waits upon the flowery prime;
And summer, though it be less gay,
Yet is not looked on as a time
Of declination or decay;
For with a full hand that does bring
All that was promised by the spring.
The younger sister of Lady Dorothea; afterwards married to Sir John Pelham.
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